November Rain (Version 2)
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU In this novella, John's life changes profoundly after he rescues an FBI Special Agent from the World Trade Center on 9/11. This is rated T because of adult situations, extreme danger, hot sex, violence, gunplay and more. This version gently edits for clarity, corrects a few things, but doesn't change the story you've told me you love. CHECK MY PROFILE FOR NEWS!
1. Chapter 1

**November Rain **

**by Cardinal Robbins (Copyright 2005)**

**Prologue: **_**Gone**_

It was early morning on September 11, 2001, as Carolyn's phone rang and she snapped it up on the third ring, before the answering machine could beat her to it. She didn't think much of the interruption to her paperwork, sure it was her mom calling with the day's itinerary. Instead, she was shocked by the near-panicked voice of Patrick Stranahan, a close family friend and member of the Department of Justice. "Turn on the TV – _**now**_!" he said urgently, and abruptly hung up.

She ran into the den and switched on the set, then watched in horror at what she saw: in a videotaped segment marked "REPLAY" a jet could be seen turning, turning farther, settling into a pattern, then flying straight into the first of two of the World Trade Center Towers. Her mind went numb. _Sarah. Oh, dear God, my sister's in there! _She couldn't tear her eyes away from the screen, as minutes later another plane flew into the side of the second Trade Center Tower and both of them started to crumble, as if they were sandcastles on the beach. _"Oh, God, no….not like this! __**No!**_

Carolyn screamed to her husband, crying hysterically as she ran to the bedroom. _**"Peter! Peter – she's gone! Sarah's gone – the Towers, a plane went into the Towers earlier this morning and then a second plane and they're…just…gone. The Towers are…both…just…gone. And so is she."**_ He came out, saw the carnage replayed on the television and stood there, staring at the continuous loop.

She picked up her cell phone and called Sarah's number, but there was no response. She tried to calm herself with the knowledge all circuits, landline and cell, would be overwhelmed, but she also knew that Sarah met with the rest of her team at that time every morning. Special Agents for the Federal Bureau of Investigation wouldn't usually begin their fieldwork until later in the day, after the morning briefings, and she knew her sister was in the offices in the first Tower.

Tears coursing down her cheeks, she clung to her husband as the disaster replayed again and again on every channel. Even on TLC, Discovery and other channels not known for news or special coverage, the piece of cellphone video taken by a Manhattan tourist was virtually everywhere. Each time she saw it, Carolyn started to cry anew. Los Angeles International airport had been shut down immediately, as was Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena airport; all flights had been grounded and New York – as had the Nation – was ground to a halt.

Worse yet, Carolyn didn't just know her sister was dead…she was sure she could _feel_ it.


	2. Chapter 2

**November Rain **

by Cardinal Robbins

(Copyright 2005)

**Chapter One: Concrete & Steel **

Sarah Rochelle Zelman was in a space, both literally and figuratively, that was inescapable. Moments before entrapment in a twisted metal and concrete coffin of three by three and a half feet, she had been getting coffee and heading quickly back to her desk for a large three-ring binder of notes. The FBI's offices were on the 14th floor of what was at that time the World Trade Center, and she had heard commotion break out loudly among her fellow FBI agents and their support staff. She had enough time to look up, saw what looked like the shadow of a 757 heading straight into the windows above them all and then…darkness.

She awoke to screams of pain and panic, the acrid stench of burning bodies, yells of random names – some she recognized, some she didn't – but above all the dripping darkness and reek of unburned jet fuel, mixed with conducted heat of burning fuel and fixtures. _Smoke. Oh, shit…_ Her first thought was she'd die from inhaling cyanide, generated by the burning fixtures, especially the seats in the jet. Her hell was further complicated by the metal-reinforced concrete prison that kept her from escape.

Suddenly, the building groaned, shuddered, lurched and she could feel herself falling fast, tumbled against her prison into unconsciousness again, the rough building materials ripping what clothing the blast hadn't taken, scraping large patches of her skin. On a subconscious level, she felt a piece of rebar - the metal that held concrete together - puncture straight through her calf so quickly she didn't have time to curse. Fortunately missing the bones and nerves in her left leg, it had gone through neatly but painfully. If it had been a bullet, she would have considered it a 'through and through,' but it kept her from much movement unlike most of the wounds she'd sustained throughout her law enforcement career.

Her head throbbed unrelentingly as she came to, her hair soaked in blood, which dripped from time to time into her eyes. Her glasses were still on, but one lens had shattered in place. She tried to adjust to the darkness as both polychromic lenses lightened slightly, wondering how far she had fallen and where her coworkers and friends were – or more succinctly, if any of them had survived. Even then, she wasn't entirely convinced she was alive. Her hand reached out to get a scope of the enclosure's parameter. She wanted to get free to give aid, at least as soon as she could get the rebar to relinquish its grip on her leg.

Above her, a four-inch gap in the concrete greedily gulped in sunlight, muted by dark smoke and dust that poured in on top of her. She grabbed the rest of a ripped sleeve and pulled hard, satisfied as it came free. She used it as a mask to help guard against anything that might be in the air, be it from biological warfare or simply demolition dust. Who knew what had been in the building that had stood so strong for so many years? The larger question loomed: Why had the plane hit and what was it carrying besides several hundred precious souls and a full load of fuel?

She caught herself almost panting. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Her Emergency Medical Technician training took her mind off of the claustrophobia that ate at her mind so voraciously. _Remember Quantico,_ she reminded herself, _and everything you learned there._ She could breathe, more or less, despite coughing almost violently at times; getting oxygen to her brain was priority one. _Think of all those yoga classes and the breathing control techniques. You can do this. _Her airway was still relatively clear despite the airborne debris. She was concentrating on controlling her breathing to alleviate the pain and panic threatening to rob her of logic.

She ripped another piece of clothing and held it to her most serious head wound. It was deeper than she expected and head wounds always bled so profusely. The possibility of a concussion and its ability to fog her brain was what had given her the false bravado to try and escape, in order to help. She ripped another piece of cloth to have at the ready, then tried to gently pull her leg from the rebar. A fricative escaped her lips and she sighed, resigned that this time she wouldn't be the rescuer, but would hopefully be rescued.

She debated trying to scream, but the concrete was so thick. Who would hear her? _This isn't exactly the way I planned to go out_, she considered grimly, _but if it is, I'll see my friends on the other side._ As darkness closed in around her once more, her last thoughts were on Steve DiMarco, her boss, mentor and friend.


	3. Chapter 3

"**November Rain"**

by Cardinal Robbins

(Copyright 2005)

**Chapter Two: The Bureau **

"Is anyone here?" she heard a male voice yell. "If you can hear me, make some noise!" It was almost impossible to be heard above the din; he could hardly hear his own voice coupled with the cacophony of police and fire department radios, rescuers trying to move rubble, the constant rain of dust and God knew what else, and an uncoordinated ballet of disaster relief starting to define its choreography.

He was unrelenting is his mission to find survivors. "If you can – yell, sing, scream, anything! I need to hear you, so I can get help for you!" He pressed the filtered mask tighter to his face in an effort to keep out more of the thick dust, despite his darkened glasses making a decent fit nearly impossible. John Munch stepped carefully closer into the rubble, utterly unconcerned that his favorite pair of black and white wingtips were getting trashed. He heard what sounded like rebar smashing against concrete and grew uncharacteristically hopeful. "Keep at it! I hear you – help is on the way!"

He gestured to his partner. "Find me something hard and heavy. I need to try and pound back, so they know we can hear them." Brian Cassidy handed him a twisted, yet substantial, piece of heavy iron debris and John slammed it hard against the thick concrete. His pulse quickened as heard a pounding in response.

"Over here! Cassidy, get someone with a jackhammer, roto-hammer or a fireman's pry-bar and let's get going!" He stooped down to see if there was a place to pry the concrete, if only to get more air into the small space. There was another three to four-inch gap at the bottom. "Hey! Can you hear me? I'm Detective John Munch from NYPD and you're going to be okay. We just have to find a way to get you out." He heard a groan, but this time it represented life instead of impending death. "If you can hear me, tell me your name!"

He listened closely, wishing a pry-bar, firefighter's piker pole or even a crowbar was already in his hands. "I need to hear you – _**now!"**_ He made an effort to sound more like a SWAT team leader than a borderline panicked man in an impossible situation. He could feel the critically damaged building swaying again, making his stomach lurch, a quick shot of bile rising almost into his mouth. He swallowed hard, slowing his breathing as the building's increasing instability made itself known once more. "Talk to me! How many of you are in there?"

"Only one," replied a woman's voice. "I'm Special Agent Sarah Zelman, FBI. I'd come out to meet you, but there's more than just concrete in the way…I've got an 8-inch section of rebar straight through my left calf. You can't pull down this panel as a unit, you'll have to break it up from the top down – or this rebar's going to break my leg. What floor are we on?"

"We're in a pocket on the 6th floor," John answered. "I'll let the paramedics know about not pulling on the concrete." John had listened to her carefully, satisfied she sounded lucid. The calmness of her voice was oddly unnerving, considering the situation. Was she really that composed? How could any victim not panic in the face of what had happened? "Do you have any other injuries, Sarah…uh…Agent Zelman?"

"Can't seem to get my head injury to stop bleeding completely and I'm really sleepy. Went down with the Tower from our 14th floor offices, so I've probably got a concussion. I'm starting to go cold and clammy, too – adrenaline rush is wearing off and I think shock's starting to set in."

His heart stood still for a moment. _Shock_. It would take her off this rock before the concussion could, especially if she fell asleep. He couldn't even pass his coat to her through the small space. "Agent Zelman? I want you to keep talking to me, no matter what. Do you understand? I need you to stay with me, Sarah." He'd sent his partner to find a paramedic team with rescue capabilities, but thus far Brian was nowhere to be seen. Munch tried to stretch out nearer the crack in the bottom of her cube. "Call me John. What do you do for the FBI? Can you tell me?" He'd seen too much death today to risk letting her go.

"Things are fading in and out, John," she said morosely. "Pass me your badge under the crack, because I need someone to take my Glock, belt and holster. I have to know you're actually NYPD." Her vision blurred, she could just make out his badge was the genuine article, gold to signify he was indeed a detective of some status in his department, held in his leather-gloved hand. "Okay, thanks. You're legit."

"You went down with the Tower?" he asked, amazed that anyone could survive this hell all around him.

"Yeah… Did you?"

"No, we were close enough to get the debris cloud raining on our car, hard enough to crack the windshield in a few places, then got the word from our captain to report here and – "

"See if anyone lived," she finished. "Where's your partner?" She knew detectives usually responded in pairs. It would follow that Munch had someone else with him, probably also searching the same area.

"He's searching for more survivors, as well as trying to find some firefighters to help you." He looked at his badge and slipped it back on to his belt. The building was falling apart around them, piece by piece. Another gut-wrenching sway and the air was growing hotter. It had grown surreally quiet as the rescuers and the victims seemed to hold their collective breath. The world as they knew it, inside what was left of the first Tower, slowly regained its hum of furtive activity. "Zelman? Talk to me. Like I said before, I need you to stay with me."

He heard her gasp a couple of times and groan in pain as she struggled take off her belt and ordnance. She took the gun from its holster, knew the safety was automatically on, then passed the gun through first and shoved her belt and holster through at last. She passed her fold-over ID wallet to him and he looked it over. It was just like Dr. Huang's, the same black leather. He idly wondered what her security clearance was.

"My pistol's a Glock 35, government issue. Careful, a round is chambered up." Without it, she felt almost naked, even though it was more of a liability that an asset in her circumstances.

"Nice sidearm," Munch said, admiring it as he holstered it. "I have one of these as an auxiliary carry. It's a _little_ easier to conceal than the Glock 34 I carry every day." He noticed she'd used a marker to blacken the red dot that showed the automatic safety was on. Most cops did that so perps couldn't tell if their gun was ready to fire or not. Glocks had a different system, easier to use, which made them ideal for military and law enforcement. "You'd rather carry a .40 caliber than a nine-millimeter 34?"

"I just qualified with a nine-mill, but found it a little heavier than I needed," she replied. "Of course, with the streets getting rougher, I may upgrade to a 34. I keep a 22-caliber for aux carries, and a Walther PPK as a personal piece, but both are at my place today," she explained.

He noticed it was taking a lot more effort for her to keep talking, some of her words slurred a bit which he attributed to her concussion. "Anything else you want me to hang on to for you?"

"Yeah, there is." She paused for a moment. "Keep everything for me, would you, Munch? And these, too." She took off her earrings; small ovals of turquoise. "Give these to my sister if they can't get me out. I'm an organ donor and want my remains cremated, if things turn hopeless."

He wanted to reassure her, but choked on the words. Life and death; the turn of the cycle, but she was so unnervingly nonchalant about it. Covering her feelings, just as he had done a million times before and continued to do every day.

His hand passed underneath the crack, this time with no glove. She held it for a brief moment. He had long fingers and gorgeous hands; she caught herself wondering what he looked like, then she dropped her earrings into his palm. He took the earrings and pocketed them.

"Not to worry…everything will be safe with me, Agent Zelman. And they will get you out, you can count on it." He slipped his hand back underneath and she held it again, allowing herself the comfort of his grasp. "Everything will be in the captain's safe at the 16th precinct. It'll be waiting for you." He felt her squeeze his hand. She was in so much agony and his touch was so calming. He gently squeezed back, then she let go of it and pushed it back. "I'll be at the 16th waiting for you, too," he said.

_I'd love to see your carry card,_ she thought. _Bet you're their house heartbreaker._ "Don't put your hand underneath again, John…just in case the building shifts. I wouldn't want you to get your fingers crushed at my expense." She shivered; initially she thought the trembling was nerves or the rush of adrenaline, but now she was actually shivering. "Jesus, when did it get so cold in here? I'm shaking so hard it's ridiculous."

_It's not cold in here,_ he thought_…it's oddly warm. The fires are out of control and moving downward and upward simultaneously. He could tell by the frantic chatter on his police radio. "_Sarah, tell me about your job with the FBI." _You need to keep talking and I'm not leaving until I know you're safe. Cassidy can look for other survivors while I keep you going._

"You want to know what I do for the Bureau?" she asked him. "I'm a profiler," she replied weakly, "but not _quite_ as much a psychological profiler, although that's a major part of my job. I'm a forensic weapons profiler. I can tell you what the bad guys are likely to torture or kill you with, and can still give you some pretty deep insight into their personality and how they'll go about killing you."

It was getting so hard to stay awake. She was forcing herself to talk when sleep was calling to her like a siren's song. "George Huang is our best psych profiler. He taught me everything I know for the psych portion of my job, since I didn't exactly have time for a university degree."

"I know Dr. Huang. He's a brilliant man at what he does."

"Agreed. He's been a great mentor. Glad he wasn't in the buildings today," she said gratefully. "We were about to get ready for a meeting on a breaking case, something came in straight from the Prez and the C.I.A. – it was an emergency meeting. We called Dr. Huang, but he was stuck tight in a traffic snarl. Guess it wasn't his time to go," she said wryly. "Then I saw a plane's shadow and all hell broke loose." She sighed, not entirely convinced she'd be freed, but grateful for the company. "Call me Sarah; after all, we're on the same team at the moment. You have a very calming voice, John."

"Yeah, that's what all of my ex-wives have said."

"All? You must be a Leo," she teased. "Leo men tend to fall in love with every woman they meet."

"Hey! I resemble that remark!" he shot back, allowing himself a tight smile. If she knew about Leo men, he thought, how many has she been involved with?

"Just don't fall in love with me or you'll be disappointed."

"Why?" he asked. "If you're married, I'm already beyond 'disappointed' and into despondent," he joked. Was she married? He hadn't entertained the possibility until that moment. If she was, had her husband been a fellow agent, killed when the plane hit the building?

"Because I'm a Sagittarius – the archer who'll shoot you in the ass when you least expect it, then gallop merrily away after breaking your heart into a million pieces." She chuckled loud enough for him to hear. "Humor's good…it may keep my mind off this bar through my leg. I hope they haven't run out of morphine yet."

"Well, you won't have to worry about flunking an agency drug test. I think your supervisor will understand." _And I noticed how adroitly you side-stepped my fishing expedition about marriage, _he thought sarcastically. _But at least you haven't asked me to call your husband…yet. _"Do I know your supervisor?" he asked, changing the topic.

"He usually didn't take field assignments," she explained. Zelman added in an almost mechanical tone of voice, "I'd introduce you sometime, but that depends upon whether or not he's alive. I might see him before you do." He had been standing next to her when the world blew apart in an instant.

Her supervisor had shoved her _hard_ under her desk. It was as if it had all happened in slow motion: Steve looked up, looked over, she felt confused for an instant and then he grabbed her physically and shoved her so forcefully under her desk she gasped in pain and covered her head. She'd yelled his name and felt as if her eardrums were going to blow out. _The building,_ she vaguely remembered thinking. _Pressurized…a bomb?_

She didn't immediately understand why he'd been so rough, until the floor was moving in what felt like a thousand different directions all at once. When she looked behind her, he was gone and the offices looked like an atomic bomb had detonated in the middle of the cubicles. Glass had rained down everywhere, bodies and body parts were scattered, and then she briefly recalled falling into open space until she hit concrete. She was cut, scraped and bruised almost everywhere, she knew she had broken ribs, possibly a skull fracture as well, but that wasn't the worst of it. She was _trapped_.


	4. Chapter 4

**November Rain**

by Cardinal Robbins (Copyright 2005)

**Chapter Three: Faith **

"They're bringing people out alive, Sarah. Keep the faith." He finally cleared away enough debris to sit down, so he could make sure his voice carried clearly through the opening in the concrete. "Your last name… Are you Jewish?"

"Yeah, Conservative, almost Orthodox in some respects," she answered, her voice weaker than it was when he found her. "What about you, are you a member of the tribe?"

"Yes, my family is Orthodox but I haven't joined a minyan since a friend of mine, Helen Rosenthal, was murdered," he explained. "I have enough faith to think she's in a better place, although we're not supposed to believe in an immediate afterlife." He still missed her, despite the fact she never saw him as a romantic interest. He'd been condemned to 'the friend zone' in Helen's life, but looking back on it all he could easily live with that. At least he'd allowed himself to celebrate her life and mourn her loss after she'd been killed. It was more than he'd allowed himself to do for his father at this point in his life.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. Faith is all we have, John," she said, her voice soft. "At least God sent me another Jew to pass the time with. You can always start by telling me all about your ex-wives."

Munch was encouraged by the sarcasm, it meant she was still with him. "Stay awake for me? Please?" Her voice was oddly comforting to him, but it was fading in and out; he wondered if she looked like his vision of her. He toyed with the idea of looking at her FBI identification, but was sure it wouldn't do her justice.

"No guarantees. Losing blood and I can feel my gut starting to ache. I'm not even looking at my leg again until I see some paramedics. Rusty rebar completely through it, and here I thought I'd get tetanus from stepping on a nail." She coughed again, wishing she could stop. It hurt to breathe, it hurt worse to wheeze. She couldn't get enough air, no matter how hard she tried. This time when she hacked, she got more than she bargained for: blood.

"Great…coughing up blood now. That's a new wrinkle in today's mess. I know I've broken two or three ribs, one of them must have punctured a lung." She had a metallic taste in her mouth and hoped desperately she wouldn't wretch. "John…how old are you?" Her stomach lurched. She was grasping at anything to keep her from thinking about how seriously injured she was, and whether or not she'd actually be rescued.

"Why? Does it matter how old I am?"

"I don't know… You wanted me to talk. I'm talking." Her accent definitely wasn't East Coast; he idly wondered if that was from all the FBI-required travel.

"I'm in my mid-fifties, fifty-four to be exact," he admitted. "But the ladies can't resist me," he added, wishing it was true. "I'm painfully aware it's rude to ask a lady her age, but how old are you?"

"Forty-four," she said fearlessly. She couldn't understand why women were so paranoid about age; she certainly wasn't. "Last time I was at Temple, the rabbi said that my hair was a…distraction. It was the last time I went to shul. I should have made more time for Temple, but maybe God will give me a pass."

"I think the good rabbi was talking in code for 'you look younger,' or maybe he was right. What color is your hair?" John was insatiably curious about her, his hand in his pocket for a moment as he touched her federal ID and once more debated taking a peek at it. To say he was intrigued didn't even begin to describe how he was feeling at that moment. His curiosity was running rampant, every bit as much as it had when he wanted to know who one of his Baltimore homicide squad-mates was dating.

"Red with blonde, from the bottle. Otherwise, it's salt and pepper – more gray than black. It was a Conservative shul, silly me to walk in without my hair covered," she explained. "I wish I gone to the Orthodox temple down the block. They were nice people."

_Were. She's already been talking in the past tense, off and on, _he thought. _This is getting critical. Subconsciously, she's giving up._

"My hair is dark, with just enough gray to remind me I'm no spring chicken," he volunteered. "But, like you, we've both been battling the gray from the early days, I'd bet."

"That we have. Sometimes, I wonder why we went gray so soon. Must be because we're cops," she retorted. She chuckled softly and he was buoyed by it. "Tell me more about yourself, John… You're an interesting fellow. I'm intrigued."

_So she's as intrigued as I am. Keep her chatting, Munch, whatever you do._ "I was raised in Pikesville, Maryland, by a typically over-protective Romanian Jewish mother, along with my father – also a Romanian Jew – who was a cop," he said, with the appropriate amount of latent religious guilt. _'Typical' except for my father's suicide,_ he thought bitterly. "Zelman… Sarah, you're German?"

"And Scots-Irish. What a combination, huh? So was the rabbi, last time I went to shul."

"Bet you're pretty." _God, what I wouldn't give to see her_, he thought. He finally let go of her FBI fold-over and pulled his hands from his pocket. He knew it wouldn't compare to the real person he was getting to know.

"Flatterer," she chided. "You'll dump me as soon as the kids in the helmets start to arrive."

"No, I won't," he asserted. "I promise."

"Bet you're handsome," she chided. "And I won't even get to see you. That sucks."

'_That sucks.' Sounds like Olivia. _Why won't you get to see me?" John asked.

"Because I want you to leave me now, before the remains of this building go south. Just…leave," she said simply. "I'll be okay; the firefighters will find me. Find a can of spray paint and mark 'VIC NEEDS RESCUE' right above your head, and keep going with your assignment. They'll find me, John. You're spending too much time with me, when you need to be doing your job," she said, still very much a Special Agent. "Now, please – go."

"No! That's not the deal."

"We didn't make a deal – and I don't want you dead. You've got my gun and everything else that matters to me, so take them back to your precinct and call it a day," she insisted. Leave while you still can. I don't want your untimely demise ringing in my head with all the rest of the people I no longer know."

"You'd rather see me pay alimony? Thanks a lot for nothing."

"Humor won't work this time," she replied. "Please…please go," she said, her voice catching. "John – don't make me beg. This building's going down to ground zero, I can feel it. Let me go with it and take along what dignity I have left."

He could hear the despondency in her voice and he ached for her, for what she must be feeling. _They were arguing,_ he thought incredulously. _In this hellhole, they were actually bargaining for who was going to walk out alive. _"I'm not leaving," he asserted. "Sarah, I'm staying here because I want to, not because I have to. I promise you that."

He wanted to slip his hand under that crack one more time, to prove he meant what he said. He could tell by her sudden desire to be alone that she'd given up on more than one level. She was ready to die and didn't want him to hear her go out. She needed to feel human contact again, he knew, but instead she was pulling back as fast and as far as her concrete cube would allow.

"Don't leave me, Sarah," he asserted. "Stay in the moment with me. They'll have a rescue team on this floor soon. You have to trust me." He wanted to take her hand again; beneath her FBI toughness was a flesh and blood woman facing her own mortality…again. His brother Bernie the undertaker, not withstanding, John Munch had _death_ in common with someone else – Special Agent Zelman. They saw it every day, they faced off with it, taunted it, felt it flow through their veins, had it follow them into their dreams each night. They dared Death to take them with each perp collared, each bullet dodged.

The urge to take her hand was almost overwhelming. Discretion was the better part of valor, however, as what was left of the building continued to rock in the most disturbing ways. He longed for Dramamine as the building suddenly shook again, violently. "Sarah? Stay calm; it's probably just part of the support structure settling to take the strain."

"John, any idea when someone with a concrete saw _will_ be on this floor? It's starting to rain in here, from the firefighters working above us. This water is freezing. I just want to lie down and sleep." She sounded so exhausted. "To hell with all this… There's not even enough room or a good way to stretch out."

"Hey! I said no sleeping!" he yelled. "Zelman, stay with me." He felt panic rising in his throat and steadied himself with a deep breath. "I mean it, Sarah, don't leave me."

"I can't fight anymore, John. Let me shut my eyes for ten minutes…that's all. I'd even settle for five." Her head and neck ached unrelentingly, tears welled in her eyes, as her gut ached excruciatingly, even worse than when she'd perforated an ulcer and almost bled out in the Emergency Room at Mercy Hospital. "Five minutes," she repeated, bargaining with him. "Like I said, that's all."

_That's exactly how it will be,_ he feared, _'that's all.'_ "No! Absolutely not!" He slammed a leather-gloved hand on the concrete and hoped she heard him. "Dammit! Stay awake and stay with me or – "

"Or you'll what?" she dared him to answer. She tried to lean her head against the concrete behind her and let out a sharp yelp of pain. _Probably did something to my neck, too,_ she thought sourly.

"I'll marry another trophy wife, get divorced yet again and be miserable forever. Or maybe I'll run off and join the French Foreign Legion," He hoped humor would work now, as it had more or less throughout their time together.

"Okay…" she sighed, her eyes closing. She forced her eyes open, cursed her blurry vision and wanted nothing more than to be safe, dry and warm in his arms. At this point he could be Quasimodo and still be a prince. "You win. Keep talking."

A team almost crawled around the corner with power tools, high-beam flashlights and a pry-bar. "We've got one!" a firefighter yelled exuberantly into his radio. "Pocket on Floor Six – victim alive, in need of heavy rescue, found by NYPD." They huddled, trying to figure out the best way to extricate her from the heavy, constantly shaking concrete.

"Your wish is my command fair maiden – some paramedics just showed up, and they brought friends and a concrete saw. Do one more thing for me?" He struggled to his feet, leaning over in hopes she could still hear him.

"Anything. Unless it's dancing." She was glad he couldn't see her doubled-over in another wave of pain and nausea.

Munch smiled grimly. "Have dinner with me once you get out of this mess."

"Deal. I could be ugly as a mud fence, you know, and now you're obligated."

"Like I should worry. You sound lovelier than any of my ex-wives, too." He saw the strategy session was breaking up, his time with her almost at an end.

"What division do you work for, John?"

"Don't let this color your opinion of me, Sarah, but I work for SVU at the 16th Precinct." He could hear her starting to cough again and wished he hadn't said anything else, but she'd somehow gotten under his skin, bypassing his numbness at the mass destruction, keeping him in the moment as he had guarded her.

"Sex crimes? Oh, please, nothing fazes me. We're on for dinner. Remember my last name is Zelman and -"

Before she could finish, he was carefully pulled out of the way by the rescue team and she could hear him, as if through a tunnel, explaining the extent of her injuries as she recognized them. He backed off as he and his partner listened to a paramedic talk her through the rescue, with no response, while another firefighter started breaking concrete from the top down. Sarah Zelman couldn't hear them; she was out cold, in every sense of the expression.

"Cassidy, I can't leave! She's not talking back to them. She's – "

"C'mon, Johnny, you've done all you can here. We _have_ to keep moving!" The SVU rookie had been a street cop long enough to know things could have gone sour over the last few moments. The last thing he wanted was for his partner to see he'd failed to keep his vic alive, especially if she'd gone out at the start of the rescue. In the past hours, they'd seen enough body bags and recovery incidents for a dozen lifetimes.

Keep moving they did, throughout the 6th and 7th floors, but Munch had to backtrack once more to where he'd found her. It was an eerily small space, too much blood soaked into the wet concrete chunks and tortured steel, mixed with the detritus of a paramedic rescue. _How much had she suffered?_ he wondered. _Was she even still alive?_


	5. Chapter 5

**November Rain**

By Cardinal Robbins (Copyright 2005)

**Chapter Four: Lost & Found **

They both did what they could until exhaustion drove them back to the house and into the crib. They saved a lot of people that day; both John and his partner lost count, but Munch's mind drifted back to FBI Special Agent Sarah Zelman. He'd stored her sidearm, gun belt, holster and earrings in the captain's safe, accompanied by a hastily scrawled note that explained the contents.

As he surrendered to sleep, he could still hear her voice, so calm in the midst of chaos.

Despite the crippled city, he would find her again; he wanted to know she was alive. He could find her, it would be easy for a detective. He could trace the gun because the registration would include both her FBI division and her home address. He was afraid to admit to himself that he desperately wanted to hear her voice once more, and not just that – to be able to see her, to touch her once more, to know she was truly a survivor.

When the Towers went down, his defenses fell into an abyss with them. He wanted nothing more than something – _someone_ – to connect with, but to admit that to his colleagues would be to admit weakness. Behind the safety of his dark lenses, John Munch was compassionate, empathetic, intellectual, but never weak; yet he was human. Only if he discovered Zelman had survived, been spared somehow, would he feel there had been some purpose to his work over those endless hours. Only then would he feel tall and strong once more.

Munch awoke after six hours of sleep and looked to his partner, Cassidy, who was softly snoring. _Was Zelman out of surgery yet? Had she even survived the trip out of the debris?_ He got up quietly, went to the men's room, splashed water on his haggard face and entered the bullpen. He grimaced as he heard those ever-familiar words.

"Munch, my office. Now," Captain Cragen intoned. "I saw your note. Everything's fine in my safe, no problem there." He closed the door behind John, motioned to the chair directly in front of his desk as he sat down himself. He pulled a vodka bottle and glass from behind his files in the bottom drawer. "Pour. You'll need it."

For probably what was one of a handful of times in his life, the detective did as he was told. He took a long pull off the shot and looked at the Captain mournfully. "Remind me to buy you some better vodka," he quipped, watching Cragen's face carefully. _Not even a smile. This isn't good._ "Let me guess. Cassidy told you all about the FBI agent and she was dead on arrival." He felt his guts twist when he saw Don's expression. Sometimes the man was utterly unreadable.

"Yeah, well, before he hit the rack, Cassidy spilled his guts. Man, can that guy run his mouth. If only he worked and studied as much as he talks," Cragen complained. "But there's good news, John. Dr. Huang knows Agent Zelman, since George is also FBI. I called and asked him to do a quick search for her."

Munch's mouth opened slightly, but he couldn't speak. He was still trying to process his captain's profound act of kindness. "Cap, despite a city-wide call-out, you – " he was too stunned to finish the thought aloud.

"He found her at Mercy Hospital in the recovery room and made a positive I.D. – she's over there, due for I.C.U."

Munch swigged the last of the vodka, feeling it burn a path to his long-empty stomach. "How…how is she? I saw the bridge they had to traverse to get her out. We walked it with a few survivors. Cassidy almost lost his footing, then almost lost his breakfast."

"Zelman's in 'guarded condition' at the moment, but Huang said he talked to a couple of her doctors in between doing psychological triage there; she should eventually pull through. Huang said she's a hell of a fighter when she wants to be. They have history, it runs deep." He started to pour another shot, but stopped as Munch gestured he'd had enough. "Huang's almost in over his head over there, even he's going to need some 'couch time' with a colleague or two."

"Can I see her?" He wasn't expecting much, especially in light of current events and overtime.

"I can give you an hour – but you've got to get a decent meal into you as well, or I'm going to be pissed. I can't have my people falling out from hunger and exhaustion, especially during a terrorist attack."

"So this _was_ a terrorist attack," he blurted. "And everybody's been giving me endless grief over conspiracy theories!" John almost levitated from the chair and bolted for the door. "I heard the rumors, but collapsed into a crib before I could confirm anything. Now I _have_ to talk with Zelman – she's a profiler and said something about working on a case. The President had called an emergency meeting and - "

"And you will say _nothing_ about what you heard!" Cragen asserted. "I'm aware of the case, John, because the Chief has already called. He's all over my ass about it, just like he is with every other captain in every other precinct." He scrubbed his face with his hand, almost too weary to think.

"What happened today and the resulting issues from it will be going city-wide and probably nationwide, John. _You_ need to be aware Agent Zelman is in no condition to talk and that if you do, this entire situation is a matter of national security. You could be found guilty of a felony by even mentioning certain things to her, got that? The press is going crazy, so expect to be badgered with questions wherever you go. They're desperate for anything and they're making things up as they go along. We cannot and _will not_ feed into the media frenzy, especially until we know what we're dealing with here."

"Understood." Munch recalled how Benson had once gotten herself into hot water by leaking information from the Feds, and he was determined not to follow in her mistakes.

"We'll get Huang to pull some strings later on, if we need her in here to help us. They both work for the FBI, so it shouldn't be a problem." Cragen stood, wishing he too could delve into the vodka bottle just…one…time. If there ever was a time, today was the day. He gave the half-empty bottle a longing look then put it and the glass away. It felt almost magnetic as he released his grip on it.

"Right now, Huang said, she needs to know who helped her hang on. Cassidy told me how patient you were with her, so I'm giving you a chance to see her. Grab something to eat and then spend a few minutes with her. You won't get much time with her in ICU, because you're not family. Don't expect too much."

"Meaning what? I wouldn't think she'd be conscious so soon after surgery," he replied. "What else did Doc Huang tell you?"

"She's in a medically-induced coma, a light one to help her body heal. He thinks she'll hear you on some level if you talk to her," Don explained. "But absolutely _nothing_ about the terrorist attacks, you got me?" He saw the look of gratitude on John's face and added, "It'll do you both some good to see each other."

"Huang said that, too, didn't he?" He cringed at the thought of being psychoanalyzed yet again, even on the most basic level. Damned if it wasn't always without his permission, somehow, too.

"Actually, yes he did. Now _go_. See her while I can spare you for a few," Cragen ordered. "Before I change my mind and slap your sorry ass back on overtime on an empty stomach." Don looked at Munch with an expression the detective hadn't seen since Fly Florida flight number 105 crashed nose first into the Everglades and the Captain got the call. His wife was dead. Her last flight as an attendant before retirement: No survivors. It was a look of despair deeper than any language could convey. John realized at that moment he wasn't the only cop who secretly longed for someone to go home to at night.

He was into his dark gray trench coat and out the door, almost before Cragen could finish his sentence. "Thanks, Cap - I owe you big time," he called out, almost slamming the door behind him.

If anyone knew Zelman and could positively identify her, it would be Dr. George Huang – who was well connected with almost all the Special Agents in the New York City offices. The FBI required a certain amount of 'couch time' for everyone who moved up in the ranks, and most of them met with the good doctor at some point in their career. John knew this would cost him a few sessions with Huang, but it was a price he was willing to pay if it meant he could see Sarah once more.


	6. Chapter 6

"November Rain" by Cardinal Robbins (Copyright 2005) Chapter Five: Mercy General

John Munch hated 'hospital whiff,' the same smell of antiseptics and cleaners that every hospital used to cover the metallic scent of blood. He punched the elevator button and hoped the flash of his badge would gain him entry into ICU, which was usually reserved for family and the closest of friends. He hadn't even thought to ask if there was anyone he should call for Sarah; for all he knew, she was married. Contemplating that took his mood down a few more notches as he stepped into the elevator.

The ICU's waiting room was an exercise in quiet desperation. People sat curled and staring into space, some pacing, some gently rocking back and forth, wondering if their loved ones were in surgery, in emergency or in the step-down unit or already in the ICU.

He walked out of the waiting area, flashed his badge in front of the windows in the large double doors which separated the unit from the rest of the hospital. A nurse's voice came over the intercom. "May I help you, officer?"

"Detective John Munch to see Special Agent Sarah Zelman. Dr. Huang sent me," he added, hoping that would open the locked doors.

The buzzer quietly sounded and he walked in; a nurse escorted him to her bedside. "She's not long out of the recovery room. I can only give you five minutes."

"That's enough, thank you." He first looked at Sarah's hands, one had an intravenous line and the other was scraped up so badly it was almost completely covered in dressings. There were too many tubes and wires to count. She was covered with a top sheet and _two_ blankets, one decidedly heavier than the other. The bed was ever so slightly in the Trendelenberg position, but at least he could tell she wasn't in anti-shock trousers. "Will it be okay to carefully hold her hand? The other one looks too banged up."

"It should be fine. That IV's in to stay – I started it myself," the nurse replied softly. "Go ahead. I'll come and get you when your time is up. You can talk to her, too, but I'm not sure she'll respond. Doctor Huang said you kept her going while she was trapped. That was extremely brave of you, Detective."

"Part of the job," he said, suddenly embarrassed. "I just wanted to see her and make sure she'll recover." He was more than relieved when the nurse left them alone. He glanced at his watch; five minutes wasn't long, but at least it was something. It would give him long enough to see she was still alive.

"Sarah, it's John. I'm here," he almost whispered. "You're going to be fine. I'm going to leave my cell phone number at the nurses' station, in case you need anything or need me to call anyone."

He sat down beside the bed, pulled off his gloves, pocketing them. He slipped his warm hand beneath her cold one, hoping his grasp would warm it. He finally saw her for the first time. She was nothing like he'd envisioned, but in a good way. She had been carefully cleaned up, most probably in pre-op. Her reddish blonde hair had been cleansed of the blood, the scalp wounds closed.

She wasn't petite, but she had an almost athletic build. Probably muscular, knowing she was a Bureau agent. He could tell she was about 5'6 or so…not quite as tall or stunning as Benson, but certainly beautiful in her own right. Her hair was regulation length, but cut in a most feminine way, highlighting her clear skin which looked untouched by anything artificial.

_I should have known she was a redhead_, he thought, drifting back to how serious things had been with Casey. Before it all tumbled down over the topic of children, like so many baby blocks…with a hidden fragility not unlike the two Towers.

He could tell Zelman wasn't into the beauty trap of his ex-wives, who'd each spent his hard-earned money on makeup and custom colored hair, long nails, expensive baubles, spa days and the latest fashions. Her nails were cut very short, all the better to wear gloves and shoot a weapon. She had the hands of someone who worked for a living. He respected women who made an honest living, especially those who risked their life for the public.

Her leg was elevated and heavily wrapped, immobilized but fortunately not cast. Antibiotics and Ringer's lactate flowed into her system, along with a pint of whole blood marked O-negative through a second IV in her opposite arm. It was probably the last pint of that blood type in all the boroughs, he thought. A soft cervical collar was around her neck. _Sprain? Fracture? Precautionary?_ He wondered.

She was almost covered in bruises or the telltale redness that was going to bruise at a later time. He was almost afraid to touch her, lest he cause her any more pain, but the nurse sounded sure he could hold her hand without doing any additional damage. Her hand felt slightly warmer in his grasp. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth, but she seemed to be breathing with relative ease, for which he was grateful.

She gently clasped his hand, surprising him enough to startle. Lack of sleep was making him jumpy; he needed a hot cup of tea to calm him. Sarah's second round of morphine and other drugs were starting to wear off and she awakened just enough to realize someone was holding her hand. "John?" She fought to briefly open her eyes – they were brown, like his. _"Oh, dear God… Make the pain go away…"_ she moaned, no louder than a whisper.

"I'm here, Sarah…everything's going to be fine. Close your eyes, try to go back to sleep," he whispered into her ear. He had a moment's hesitation before he gently placed his free hand against her cheek. "You shouldn't talk right now."

"One thing," she whispered.

"_Anything."_

"Thank you…for keeping me alive," she slurred, the darkness taking her away from him once more.

He felt her hand go slack in his as she closed her dark eyes. _If she's married I'm partying with my gun tonight,_ he taunted himself.

"Time's up," the nurse said, as she came back into the room. "Sorry." She pushed a green button on one of the intravenous pumps, releasing more morphine into Zelman's system. "I wish we could do more for her pain," she whispered.

"Me, too…" He stood, still hanging on to Sarah's hand. "At least I got to see her," he said softly. Hesitating, he took another long look at her, then allowed himself to kiss her gently on the cheek. "I'll come by again later, Sarah," he whispered. He reluctantly let go of her hand, wishing he'd had much longer than a mere five minutes.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat, then offered his card to the nurse. "Look, I have no idea if she has family, a husband, a cat, a parakeet…anyone. But if she needs anything at all, or if her condition changes, will you call me? Day or night."

"Sure thing," she replied with a warm smile, making a mental note to have the card posted at the nurses' station.

"Thanks." He finally turned away from Zelman's bedside, despite wanting to stay there all day. He felt his stomach rumble, hoping the nurse hadn't heard the long growl of hunger. It was time to see what culinary horrors their cafeteria had, before Cragen chewed him a new backside.

"Oh, Detective…"

"Yes?" He turned toward the nurse, noticing the sly grin on her face.

"Just so you know, she's single. Next of kin is a sister on the West Coast, secondary contact is a female friend in Indiana." She gave him a playful wink, well aware of the situation between them. Munch was wearing his heart on his sleeve, despite his best intentions to hide the fact.

"Really? She'd mentioned a sister." He hoped the nurse hadn't seen him raise his eyebrows, surprised Zelman wasn't married or otherwise linked to someone significant in her life.

"No husband or male contact listed, at least not through the Bureau." The nurse watched that fact register on him as he nodded.

He gave a short huff, shook his head slightly and wondered if The Big Guy was on his side or simply setting him up for another failed attempt at love. Without another word, he left Sarah's room and walked out of the ICU.

As the double doors closed behind him, for the first time since the World Trade Center catastrophe, John Munch allowed himself a surreptitious smile.


	7. Chapter 7

"November Rain"

by Cardinal Robbins (Copyright 2005)

Chapter Six: Gain & Loss

"I don't usually say this," Don Cragen began, "but I should say it a hell of a lot more often. I'm very proud of you people – _my_ people – and what everyone accomplished yesterday." He struggled to continue, lack of sleep and constant updates from the brass had made his nerves raw. "The 16th had a rescue and recovery rate that was right up there with the best of the first responders. That's why I tolerate all the shit I do from up above – "

"You mean from God," John challenged, "or the brass?"

"Both," Don retorted, a wry smile on his face. "Of course, the brass thinks they're God. But don't let this message get lost, people: I could not be more proud of everyone here for what they did yesterday. 'Everyone' meaning foot patrol unies to you, my detectives – and _everybody_ in between.

"If you haven't had a chance to get in contact with your friends and family members, you're ordered to take the time and do it today" he intoned. "Do not let anyone shift in the wind over which of you are alive and which are not." He looked at the notes in his hand. "John Munch, call your mother in Miami. She called yesterday and wanted to know if her son was in the building. I told her you were fine, but she still needs to hear your voice."

"The typical Jewish boy – you never call, you never write," Elliot said, teasing Munch.

"Hey, for your information, we trade e-mail – a lot. I'll give her a call, Cap," he said, "right after I execute Elliot." He smiled wearily, giving Stabler a look over the top of his darkened lenses.

"John, kill me and you have to finish all my paperwork," he shot back, chuckling for the first time in days.

"I wouldn't do you the favor," Munch quipped. "You get a reprieve from my expert marksmanship. Consider yourself fortunate beyond your means." He sat on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Captain," Olivia asked, taking a deep breath, "did _we_ lose anyone?" The bullpen went silent; no one had thought to ask, in all of yesterday's panic.

"Unfortunately, yes. We did," Don replied, slowly. "Two patrol officers were in the bank on the first floor. They went farther into the building before orders came down for an organized S&R pull-back and they didn't make it." He looked down at the floor, silently blaming himself that he couldn't save them. There hadn't been time for a warning before they were out of radio range. Less than sixty seconds had been the difference between a future wedding celebration and an imminent memorial service. "Funeral arrangements are pending and we will all go. Just as soon as I know something, I'll relay the information. We're setting up a fund for their survivors; I'll have more info on that, soon, too."

Without thinking, Benson's hand rested on her badge and the black band across it. She didn't dare look over at Elliot, not with her eyes already welling over two bluetops who had crossed over together. It would break her; the mere thought was enough to make her heart ache relentlessly. She saw Stabler's shoulder muscles tense and new he was thinking the same thing.

"In other news, big changes are coming to our squad, people," Captain Cragen began anew, "and it's not at all a bad thing." He paced as Benson took a seat on the corner of Stabler's desk, Cassidy brought his head up from his computer screen and Munch stood up with tea mug in hand.

"Here comes the crap storm," John groused. "If it's change, it can't be good."

"Increased head count is always a plus, John, especially when it means you may have to work fewer hours and enjoy an even higher closure rate." Cragen rarely took Munch's tone seriously; he knew his creatures of habit were _all_ skeptical of changes, especially his self-professed elder statesman. "Besides, I've told you people before how much I like to shake things up from time to time."

"We're getting a new team member?" Olivia asked, buoyed by the thought of a social life. "Who? You usually pass around their jacket to let us see who's coming to the party." She glanced at Elliot, wondering if he knew who was coming in. If he did, his expression didn't tip his hand.

"Yeah," Stabler agreed, taking a long sip of coffee. "Whoever it is, I hope they can take it, that's all I have to say." He winked at Liv as he glanced down toward Cassidy. "No kid, I hope. I _hate_ babysitting, except for my own kids." _How John has the patience for it, I have no idea, _he thought_. SVU rookies. Man, what a waste of time they can be._

"He's definitely no kid. He can take anything we throw at him, people. His name is Odafin Tutuola and he's worked in Narcs longer than many of you have been here."

"And homicide before that," Munch added. He and Tutuola had history, thanks to task force and VICAP assignments.

"Exactly," Cragen continued. "We can use him, since he's an expert in drawing information off the streets, he's always up on his paperwork, he's never wrecked a company car, and he's pairing with Munch." Cragen saw the tall man wince. "What, John? It'll give Brian a rest from your conspiracy theories," he added pointedly.

"But, Tutuola won't be hitting the streets again until his knee heals up and he's through rehab," the Captain continued. "He went into the Towers when the second one came down, took some serious ligament damage during search and rescue, so he's on the Disabled List for a while. He can break in on our ways of accomplishing things while he heals up."

"Great. Should I carry him around on my back, so we can get him out there sooner?" Munch asked, bobbing his tea bag in the cooling water. "Or can we send him back for a bionic knee? You know, the government has that technology." He remembered reading that somewhere. "Think of the gas we'd save."

Elliot rolled his eyes and stifled a laugh. He saw Olivia put her hand over her mouth and cough discreetly to keep from giggling. "I think it's a good deal, Captain," Stabler volunteered. "Anything that ups our solve rates and gives me more time with my kids, I won't turn down. When do we get to see our newest detective?"

Cassidy, as the least experienced of the team, was unusually silent. He was still too preoccupied taking Stabler's 'babysitting' comment personally.

"I'm with Stabler," Benson agreed. "I haven't been on a date in months. A lighter case load works for me." She could feel the heat of Stabler's stare drilling through her back like a laser. She looked at Cragen, her head turned to one side. "What did this cost you, Captain? Nothing comes without a catch, especially here."

"This officer – and one more to be added to head-count later – cost me serious string pulling. Think of it as pulling the strings of a full symphony, especially violin first chair. I wanted to add two detectives to head count because we're working short again, and I've noticed the crankiness factor is starting to get out of hand." He took a long sip from his coffee, looking over the rim of his cup at Stabler in particular.

"'Cranky'? Us?" Elliot said. "You're kidding. We all get our four hours' sleep each night, don't we everyone?" He was only half-joking and Cragen intensified his stare.

"You can joke all you want, Elliot, but I'm serious and you should be, too," Don said, trying to make it sound like less of a warning than it was meant to be. "I originally asked for four shields, but with the budget cuts, you'd think I'd asked the Chief to give up his weekly shipment of Beluga caviar."

"Remind him it comes from an endangered species," Munch quipped. He knew all about caviar. Sometimes, Stabler wanted to clock him, because he new too much about too damned many things.

"Remind him yourself, why don't you?" Don dared him, occasionally afraid Munch would speak his mind when he saw the Chief. Cragen heard the collective whistles and gasps, shrugged his shoulders and added, "Look, everyone, _I'm_ certainly never going to make chief, thanks to the glass ceiling punching me in the face. And we all know how much I'm absolutely _adored_ by Internal Affairs," he added pointedly. "So I traded in some favors to help us all."

"Why do I get the impression there's more to this than you're telling us?" Munch asked, his face creased with concern. "Benson? Stabler? You feel it too, don't you?"

Benson slipped easily off of Stabler's desk and headed for the coffee maker. She scrutinized Cragen as she walked past. "Might as well hit us with the bad news now. You know what they say, there's no time like the present."

"You want it, okay, fine," he said, looking decidedly dyspeptic. "Every one of you is going to be scheduled for some 'couch time' with our esteemed Dr. Huang. Rescuers and survivors are already showing signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and no one on my squad is going to flip out and eat their gun because of what they saw or did when the Towers came down."

He heard the squad room break out in a combined protest and raised his voice. "That's an _order_, it's from up above and it is _final_ – even I have to go, hell even the new guy goes, so you won't be alone in your misery." Lack of sleep was making him more argumentative than usual. "Keep in mind, I am in command here, in case anyone's forgotten who makes the decisions."

As if on cue, the door was opened by a pair of crutches crashing against a brass kick plate. Without turning around to face him, Cragen said, "Welcome home, Detective Tutuola…or should we call you 'Fin'?"

"'Fin' will be fine, sir," he said. They all turned to see a tall, strong, good-looking black man, neatly trimmed beard with his hair pulled back in a tightly braided ponytail, on crutches with his left knee in a full-length brace. "Mornin', everyone. I'm the new guy."

He saw Munch and groaned, "Oh not _you_. Damned if I'm gonna listen to your ranting conspiracy theories all day long and half the night, drinking that battery acid you try to pass off as 'coffee.'" He tried hard to keep a straight face, but a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"How the hell are ya, John? It's been damned-near forever since I've seen your ugly mug." The two of them shook hands, and might have exchanged a hug if not for Fin's crutches in the way.

"I'm obviously much better off than you," he retorted, grinning. He pointed to the desk behind Stabler's. "You've got a desk right there. If you need any help moving in, let any of us know and we'll be happy to lend a hand. We were just about to take up a collection and get you a bionic knee."

"Better to take the money and buy a wheelchair for your boney ass," he shot back, with a deep chuckle.

"Good to see you again, Fin," Munch said with sincerity.

"It's mutual. Now let's end this little love-fest and get down to it," he decided. "You can start by introducing me to everyone."


	8. Chapter 8

"November Rain" by Cardinal Robbins (Copyright 2005)Chapter Seven: Intensive Care

John Munch wouldn't let anyone else drive, unless he'd taken a Dramamine. It was one of his control issues, a carryover from his days in Baltimore. He expertly weaved his way in and out of heavy traffic, but when anyone else did it his stomach felt like he'd hit zero gravity. "Cassidy, are you hungry? I'm buying."

His partner chuckled, grinning broadly. "Then I'm starving. What do you have in mind? Please not TacoRama again, Munch. If we do that, I'll never leave the 'reading room' at the house." The local TacoRama was a budget knock off of Taco Bell, both food chains dispensing dubious versions of Mexican style fast food, which gave new meaning to the saying, 'Run for the border.'

"You've been in SVU for almost a year now, but your gut's still a rookie. Yet you wouldn't know truly sublime cuisine even if it bit you in the ass." John steered their unmarked Crown Vic into the parking lot of Mercy Hospital, flashed his badge at the parking attendant and parked as close to the trauma entrance as he dared. "The cafeteria here has decent food, nothing at all like TacoRama. By the way," he added in a deeply conspiratorial tone, "we weren't here."

"Right," Cassidy agreed, elbowing John gently. "I'll tell everyone we went to TacoRama."

Munch laughed wryly, giving Brian a look over the top of his polychromic lenses. "You, my friend, are finally starting to get the picture."

oooooooOOOOOOOooooooo

It didn't take long for them to process through the cafeteria's hot food line, enjoy their choices and realize they still had plenty of time before they were due back at the precinct. Brian went to cruise the gift shop, in hopes he could find something shiny that would catch Olivia's attention. He was still determined to find some way to break Elliot's emotional hold on her, the rhinestone earrings in the window garnering his full attention as a distinct possibility to do exactly that.

Meanwhile, John headed to the ICU to see Sarah, hopeful she was able to talk. The nurse let him in, winked and walked out of the room. He sat down beside Zelman's bed. Her color was ever so slightly better but she was still pale. Redness he had seen the other day had started to color into even more deep bruising and he cringed inwardly at the sight of them. A tray sat on a table in front of her, the lid still on it. A water glass with a curved straw was next to a small pitcher of water.

"John?" She slowly opened her eyes. "I'm glad it's kinda dark in here; my eyes ache so bad. That you?"

"Hey, beautiful…" He was careful to keep his voice low, not only because she was recovering from a concussion, but because he never could be sure who was listening in on the intercom. To him, she truly was beautiful, even at her worst. He smiled, trying not to show his anxiety over how she looked. "John Munch at your service. I wanted to drop by and see how you're doing."

Sarah, groggy from the morphine, tried to move but let out a gasp of pain instead. She put her head against the pillow once more, a frickative escaping her lips. "I've been trying to get comfortable, but it's hasn't happened yet."

"Easy, babe...take it easy," he said, taking her hand. "You're not going anywhere for a while."

She forced her eyes open, blinking groggily. "I know…and I knew it was you," she said softly. "You wear the greatest cologne." She managed a weak smile and he saw none of her pearly whites had been damaged in the collapse. She closed her eyes again; they ached too much for her to keep them open.

"And you have the nicest smile," he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. He looked at the tray table over her bed, relieved she had at least been offered a meal. "What's with the untouched food tray? You need to get your strength back." He lifted the lids from each container and saw she was on a soft diet of Jell-O, yogurt and ice cream. The nurse had told him when he called, Sarah had bled internally from a ruptured spleen and her liver had been lacerated, both injuries requiring surgery and blood transfusions. Now they were being extra careful, he surmised. At least they were letting her eat something, he reasoned, even if it was only the softest of foods.

"Had a tetanus shot today, thanks to the rebar incident," she said, her eyes still closed. "Running a fever and having my usual awful reaction. Pull up my sleeve and you'll see." She winced as she moved her left arm slightly, giving him access to the sleeve of her hospital gown.

He saw the swelling, a red hot rash spreading far down her arm, and grimaced. "Ouch. That looks terrible. Let me call the nurse to bring in a cold pack." He reached over to press the call light, but she put her hand over it to block him.

"It's okay, John. She went off to get cold packs to wrap my arm in…no worries. Wish my fever would break, though. I wish I could curl up in somebody's freezer right now."

Munch placed his hand on her forehead, letting it linger there for a moment. "Does the nurse know about this? You're burning up."

His hand felt so cool and wonderful against her skin, she was almost disappointed when he moved it. "Yeah…she knows, believe me. Tylenol, Advil, cold packs…nothing's been able to break it completely. They think the antibiotics will, eventually."

He took the yogurt from her food tray, popped the top off, stirred it and spooned up a bite. "Open, sweetheart. It's time for lunch and you need to eat something."

Her dark eyes were still closed. "No, John, I'm really not – " In went the yogurt. It felt so cool against her mouth and throat it surprised her. "Not bad… Thanks."

"You're welcome." As she rested, he slowly, patiently fed her over the next twenty minutes, knowing she would have rather not eaten than allow a nurse feed her. Her pride would never betray her. "I have to head back to work soon, but is there anything you need, Sarah?"

"Just a few dozen more visits from the handsome Detective Munch," she said, a tired smile on her face. She opened her eyes slowly, wincing in the low light. "Thanks for lunch… Did you eat?" she asked, concerned.

"I did. Pastrami on rye with chips, down in the cafeteria." He was holding her hand again, a gesture that gave comfort to both of them.

"Good…" She started to drift off to sleep as the IV pump sent more sedative and painkillers into her system. "I have to get out of here soon," she whispered. "I need to get back to work."

"For now, you need your rest," he asserted. He let go of her hand and stood, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll be back tonight. If you need me, have the nurse call. I'll make sure they have my home number, too."

"Will do." She gave in to the effects of the drugs, falling into an uneasy sleep.

John motioned to the nurse, who'd entered the room with a large gel cold pack and towels, to chill down the swelling in her arm. "Got a second one for her forehead?" he asked, almost whispering.

"I'll bring one in, sure," the woman replied. "She's pretty miserable with that fever."

"It feels like she's on fire." John watched as the RN skillfully wrapped Sarah's arm in a thin towel, then the gel pack, then a heavier towel for insulation and padding.

"It's a little above what's considered low-grade, but we're keeping an eye on it. It doesn't want to break too easily." She saw the lid was off the food tray and the containers had been opened. "You got her to eat? Congratulations," she said. "She's having a rough day, especially with the tetanus shot. I offered to feed her, but she wouldn't let me."

"I figured as much," John said, a tight smile on his face. "She's so stubborn. She's already talking about going back to work." He saw the almost empty nightstand. "Can she have flowers in here?"

"No, not in here – but we'll try and transfer her to a medical/surgical floor tomorrow, depending on how she shakes the reaction to the shot and how she's doing in general. Once she's on a med/surg floor, then she can have flowers."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." He slowly turned and left, hoping when he returned she'd be in less pain, her fever broken.

oooooooOOOOOOOooooooo

He found Cassidy still in the gift shop finishing the purchase of some overpriced cubic zirconia earrings. John sighed inwardly, knowing there was nothing in this world that Olivia Benson wanted from that place, unless Elliot Stabler was for sale in the front window.

Brian and Olivia had slept together exactly once, as far as John knew, but it could have been more frequently if they'd kept things discreet. The young SVU rookie had been flirting shamelessly with Benson almost from the moment he'd set foot in the bullpen. Cassidy's infatuation with Olivia was grating on him – and everyone else, especially Elliot – but Munch knew he wasn't in any position to throw stones. He was hooked deep on a new drug with the street name Sarah Zelman. It flowed in his veins and threatened to give him a dangerous high, more potent than any bust he'd ever made.


End file.
